


Not Waving But Drowning

by passcrow



Category: Lie to Me (TV), NCIS
Genre: M/M, Post Episode Lie To Me Beat the Devil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passcrow/pseuds/passcrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it was the utter safety of the house.  The way nothing changed.  The way Gibbs tended the rooms like a museum curator.  Maybe it was just Gibbs.  Safety with a bad hair cut.  A sniper rifle.  Utterly predictable in his sheer ability to remain unpredictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Waving But Drowning

He smelled like dirt and sweat and terror but the scent of mineral laden water and wet cotton was just in his head. Mostly. He thought. Cal paced through the living room, all swinging arms and swaggering legs, one hand curled into impatiently tapping fingers while the other rubbed at his forehead. There was an ache in his throat and a burn in his lungs, an over and over sensation of not being able to breathe. He'd already passed the bathroom a dozen times, steps slowing, boots clattering against worn hardwood before turning and pacing the other way. He could feel the grime of grave digging on him, soil and sweat that hadn't been wiped off. Couldn't be wiped off. He needed a shower. Needed the comforting run of warmed water over his head and down the aching muscles of his shoulders and torso.

His entire body throbbed like a toothache. A pain that went from muscle to bone and back. The knot on the back of his head was unsympathetic of the way adrenaline rushed his heartbeat, aching and pounding and rebounding pain through his skull and down to his clenched jaw. Everything hurt. Because he'd fought and gasped and fought and struggled to breathe. Because he'd fought, all muscles flexed and fruitless against strapped bonds. He'd drowned and come back and drowned and come back and started to dig his own grave. Because he'd coughed and gagged hard enough to blow blood vessels in his left eye.

  
Cal paused near the bathroom again, hunching his shoulders farther forward, both hands falling slack and still at his sides. He nudged at the half closed door with the toe of his boot, swinging it full open. The smallest of steps had him on tile. The towel from that morning's shower was slung haphazardly on the edge of the sink, blue fabric, still smelling of his soap and fabric softener. Smelling, vaguely, of damp. The smell of wet cotton swelled over him and his heart, impossibly, started to pound harder. He started to shake, tried to calm himself by relaxing all his facial muscles in a kind of order, naming them silently as he continued to stare at the towel.

“Bloody stupid.” His own voice sounded far away, strange, not at all familiar as he forced himself to keep breathing, if only to assure himself he could. Because he hadn't been able to. He'd smothered under water soaked cotton, sinuses filling, panic reflex drawing the liquid into his lungs where it burned and suffocated and made breathing an impossible act. He'd lost count of the number of times he gasped himself back, the number of times that reflexive action had failed and Martin had had to bring him back, mashing his lips back against his teeth. And now he couldn't stand even the thought of the shower he so badly needed. Could barely stand in the room. Everything smelled like water and dank cotton.

* * *

 

 

This deep into an expensive bottle of scotch he shouldn't still be tasting tap water. Cal rattled the neck of the bottle against his glass, slopping it full of the amber liquid. The shake of his fingers was an annoyance but the clench of his chest was killing. There was a tenseness in his muscles that he couldn't out pace, couldn't out drink. With a groan he splayed himself farther over the table, letting his head loll down against the nicked and worn wood before cradling his hands at his forehead. His fingers scrabbled into his hair, tugging and twisting at the strands as he caged his breathing. Normalized it. Because there was nothing keeping him from breathing. Nothing. Except his own brain, his own memory.

“Sod it.” Flaring himself up he grabbed at the glass of scotch and stood, pacing his way into the kitchen. He had the first six digits of her number tapped into the portable phone before he tagged his thumb into the end button and slammed it back down onto the counter. He'd reached, she'd retreated. He had no doubt that she'd answer, that she'd hear the something broken in his voice, that she'd invite him over, that he'd end up still not sleeping, but doing it in her guest room. But he'd already reached and, damn it, it was her turn, he wasn't going to do it again.

  
Cal pulled a swallow of the liquor and it stuck in his throat, a taunting flood of liquid that threatened to stop his breathing. The alcohol burned at his sinuses and triggered his gag reflex. He sputtered, gagging on a gasping breath, both hands planting into the counter top He leaned over the press of his splayed fingers, spreading his diaphragm even as he hunched his shoulders. This level of falling apart was unacceptable. Counted breaths, alcohol laced swallows, Cal focused on both. Exhaustion and claustrophobia clashed behind his closed eyelids but he waited it out, fully aware that his body couldn't function much longer at this height of adrenaline fueled fear.

* * *

 

 

 

Gibbs shifted closer to his workbench when he couldn't place the thumping footsteps overhead. Tony didn't wear boots and Fornell would have been bitching by now. Ducky would have called out already and Abby would have been lighter and faster, all over caffeinated energy as she headed for the doorway to the basement. McGee didn't make it a habit to stop in, Gibbs tilted a look towards his wrist, especially at nearly four in the morning. He lifted his gun and leaned back to wait, eyes narrowed towards the stairs. Beat up boots, baggy pants cinched tight to a lean waist, rumpled up shirt, swinging steps, almost more of a barely controlled lurch before bent shoulders and mussed dark blond cleared the slant of the upper floor. Gibbs let go a breath and his gun, automatically slipping the Sig into one of the drawers at his back.

  
“Y'know the worst thing 'bout drownin'?” Cal stalled at the bottom of the steps and sat, lanking his body out along the dusty boards just above the small landing. He leaned hard into the railing, framing his head on crossed arms. There were purpled rings of exhaustion darkening at his eyes, the shade of them even more obvious against his pale skin. “It's fuckin' water, innit? No way t'avoid water. S'every where, it is.” Gibbs cocked his jaw, eyes narrowing as he studied the other man. Cal was still under the scrutiny, all his tics and motion buried under fatigue and a shattering tension that Gibbs could read off his body from across the room. “You eat?”

  
“It's four in the morning.”

  
“Yeah?” Cal shrugged. “People are eating in London.” He kicked his feet out and pulled himself up, both hands on the railing post. “Bloody hard to get a meal in this town.” The last was mumbled into the fabric of his sleeve as he wiped across his jaw and up into his hair. He clumped down the last step, scuffing his feet into concrete. “Was busy drownin' at dinner time, Jethro. Feelin' a bit peckish now though, right?” Cal's eyes were bright, unhealthily so. Frenetic. The left was threaded red, the blown vessels bright in the shine of the work light.

  
“Lucky Dragon has twenty-four hour delivery.” Gibbs wiped his hands against the thighs of his cargo pants, scattering dust from his skin and from the fabric. “Menu's by the phone.”

  
“Menu's by the phone?” Cal's eyebrows lifted before he squinted, head cocked so that he was looking up at the other man through his eyelashes. “Oi! Tell ya I was drownin' an' you give me menu's by the bloody phone?'” His voice lifted higher, tipping out to match the spiraled frenzy that brightened up his eyes and clenched at his jaw.

“Yep.” Blue eyes, calm and steady, held greened hazel. Cal searched the other man's face, a slight smile tipping his lips. He leaned his body so that his shoulder rammed into Gibbs's chest, rocking them both.

  
“Okay then.”

* * *

 

 

 

“Y'know this is horrible swill, yeah?” Cal grimaced and twisted the half full tumbler of bourbon in the light from the fire. Gibbs just shrugged and shoved their plates aside to make room for his feet on the coffee table. The blond hadn't eaten much of anything.

  
“I don't drink it for the taste.” The stretch of his knee was painful, a bent angle that he had to adjust for comfort before dropping back into the cushions.

  
“Yeah, well, what the hell y'drink it for then?” Cal matched him, sprawling back into his space easily, kicking his own feet up onto the opposite end of the couch as he settled his back firmly to Gibbs' side.

  
“To get drunk, Cal.” Sighing, Gibbs dropped his arm down to drape around the smaller man, tucking him securely close. He felt Cal relax, felt some of that ratcheting tension drain from his body.

  
“Heathen.” Cal turned his jaw into Gibbs' chest, drawing comfort from the sturdy solidity, from the steady thump of an absolutely calm pulse. His own was still too fast, lungs working twice as hard for what seemed like half the oxygen. “Bleedin' heathen Yank.”

  
“Been called worse.”

  
“Well, three ex-wives.” Cal bit at his bottom lip when long fingers stretched into his hair, blunted nails finger combing at the sweated strands. “Dunno how y'do it.”

“It involves lawyers,” Gibbs lightened his touch when he felt the other man wince, index finger ghosting over the lump that lined the back of his skull. “And a lot of yelling.”

“An' a fair bit of sportin' equipment bashed into your skull, eh?” The threaded spin of Cal's accent rounded the words together, blurring them. He shifted over, flopping so that he was facing Gibbs.

“What bashed your skull?” Gibbs blinked slowly, fingers still shifting comfortingly through the other man's hair. With the other hand he lifted the last swallow of beer to his mouth.

“Best I can remember it was a gun, right?” Cal squinted into the reaction, his eyes flickering from Gibbs' eyes to his lips. The man had more control than most over his features but even he couldn't help the way his eyes flashed and his lips thinned. Anger. “Psychopath with a bloody gun, he was.” Somehow the way the older man's fingers had tensed toward fists spread a layer of comfort over his aching chest.

“C'mon, Cal.” Cal twisted himself up off the couch and Gibbs let him go. Leaning forward, he set his empty bottle on the table and watched the shorter man pace to the opposite side of the room. “You came here to tell me, so tell me.”

“I can't not see things, right?” Cal stripped off his suit jacket and let it drop to the floor. His dress shirt was wracked and wrinkled, the fabric hanging on his slim shoulders. Everything wanted to pour out of his mouth, an unordered rush of words that he chewed against, his teeth reddening at his bottom lip. “Saw a monster. A smiling, likeable little monster.” The smile that he offered Gibbs was stretched and untrue, a learned mask. “Wanted t'play a game with me, Jethro.”

“Looks like ya won.” Gibbs met the other man's frenetic movement with stillness, eyes following as Cal worked himself back and forth in the middle of the room.

“He went after Torres, mate.” His hand rushed back through his hair, fingers tugging and pulling at the strands. “Got me down in a basement trying to make like a fish, he did. Had me tossin' dirt from my own grave. Bloody bastard almost got me.” Cal stilled, his entire body going rigid and stiff before he spun, eyes fixed and bright on Gibb's. “Went off half-cocked again, right? Right down the rabbit hole and up to my neck, I was. Chasin' a rush, Lightman to the rescue!” His hands flared, sleeves falling down over his palms as they unrolled. “Not a thought for Em. For Foster. Just--”

“Couldn't let him keep doing what he was doing, Cal.” Gibbs held Cal's eyes as he stood. He'd regained complete control of his expression again, a blinking bland mask of calm support offered as a contrast to the reddened flush of Cal's pinched look. “Think of all the girls you saved.”

“'Course you already know.” Cal blew out a breath and shoved at his shirt sleeves, fingernails scraping reddened lines up his arms. “Made a right hash out of it, I did.”

“Ben called.” In one easy move Gibbs caught against both his hands and stilled the way his fingers were scrabbling red into too pale skin. “Said you were shaky.”

“Heh, bit of an understatement, that.” Cal leaned forward enough to let his forehead settle against the slanted plane of the other man's shoulder. “Jesus, Jethro, what'm I supposed t'do?”

“You're doin' it.” Strong fingers worked into Cal's back, the tug and pull of them working warmth up against tightened muscles. “You're breathin'.” Cal snorted a huffed laugh and turned his cheek into sawdust scented cotton for comfort. “Ya just keep doin' that.” Gibbs continued to rub against his shoulders, actually rocking them together in the middle of the living room, the swayed motion of his body curling protectively tight around the smaller man. “There's not a 12 step how to guide to follow, Cal.”

“Should be. 'What To Expect When Y'Been Waterboarded' US Government'd make a mint.” Cal's voice was snuffled and flat. “Almost got me, Jethro.” He repeated, breath shuddering. Gibbs just nodded and let his chin settle against the top of the other man's head. “Was this close, it was.” The shorter man spaced his fingers out slightly before rubbing them back into the warmed and comforting fabric that lined the other man's chest.

“Not the first time, not the last. Accept it or stop doing it, Callum.” Silence shifted between them, spanned a few rounds of breathing, itched between Cal's shoulder blades. “Where's Emily?”

“With her mum.” Exhaustion fell on him, heavier now that he was wrapped in safe comfort, his body finally tipping back from heightened panic. Maybe it was the utter safety of the house. The way nothing changed. The way Gibbs tended the rooms like a museum curator. Maybe it was just Gibbs. Safety with a bad hair cut. A sniper rifle. Utterly predictable in his sheer ability to remain unpredictable. With his rules and his hoarded memories and his boats in basements and his polo shirts in more shades than should exist and his stoic control over his expressions. His ability to almost get away with a lie. Almost. And he was fucking huge. A lanky fucker, all arms and legs and wide palms. Cal started, his body jolting when he realized he was almost asleep on his feet, his mind droning on even as his muscles laxed and settled.

“And Foster?” There was a tone in the other man's voice, a sharpened, almost hurt pitch to the question and as many times as Cal said it was Gillian's job to figure out the why, he was pretty sure he could handle it this time. “Where's she?” Cal shifted out of the hold, blinking owlishly and rubbing at his jaw as he studied the carefully neutral look Gibbs was giving him.

“Fuck knows.” For a flash of a second Cal let everything flood his features, anger, frustration, confusion, hurt, and then he smiled. “Heard some unsavory bits about my history, got it all messin' about in her head, yeah? Asked her to dinner.” He cocked his head to one side, eyebrows lifted. “Not about to have dinner with the likes a me 'til she gets it all sorted into pretty, manageable piles.”

“You didn't want dinner.” Gibbs let his arms settle at his sides, his stilled posture and even look not the least bit forced. “Well, not just dinner.”

“Nah. But would've been enough.” Cal shrugged. “Would have kept me out of my own head for a bit, eh?” One finger tapped at his temple.

“Gillian Foster, your favorite distraction.” Gibb's jaw clenched minutely beneath his small, mostly faked, fully exasperated, smile. Anyone else would have missed it. Cal didn't. His eyes widened as he moved closer, leaning his way back into the other man's space, watching, cataloging. Fatigue forgotten, he flicked his eyes back and forth, taking in Gibbs' features and the squared set of broad shoulders.

“Aye. Bit jealous, Jethro?” His own shoulders relaxed and he slumped into a bent lean, head angled so that he could watch the other man's face. There was as much comfort here, in the familiar tasked focus of reading and recognizing split second movements, as there had been tucked up almost asleep against sawdusted fabric. “Of Gillian?”

“You need sleep.” Flat. Monotone. Definitely pissed off. Rounded out with that shade of hurt. “And you smell like a swamp.”

“Deflection, Special Agent Gibbs.” He squinted and shoved his hands into his pockets, carefully keeping his own face neutral. “Y'make that face whenever you hear her name, huh?” Gibbs ignored him and moved back towards the couch to gather up plates, food cartons, and empty beer bottles. “Pissed off, yeah?”

“Don't be a dick, Cal.” Gibbs's voice had dropped even lower, a purposefully voided and controlled chill. “Talk about deflection.” The bottles rattled together when he tucked them into the bend of one elbow so that he could carry the leftover Chinese to the kitchen. Cal continued to watch him, tipping to one side to keep the other man in sight. The clatter of stoneware and bottles was milder than he'd anticipated and he smirked into the realization that Gibbs was already gathering back his control, tucking himself inside that stoic shell that he'd gotten so comfortable in. But it was a transparent shell. Nobody, not even Gibbs, with his solid stoicism, could totally control the microscopic ticks and twitches of anger and sadness. And those traces, to Cal's eyes, were plain. “Stop reading me.” Gibbs pinned him with a butane blue glare.

“Impossible.” For maybe the first time in hours Cal wasn't focused on his breathing or the way his chest still ached. His hands had actually stopped shaking and his anger, downright rage, at Gillian's polite refusal, had faded into the background of his mind. “Can't not see it, mate. S'right there on your bloody face, innit?”

“You can keep it to yourself though, can't ya?” Abrupt motions had Gibbs dumping picked over fried rice and cashew chicken into the garbage, the scrape and ting of silverware loud. “Don't need to hear the play by play considering I know what you're seein'.”

“Don't gotta be jealous, Gibbs. Nothin' 'bout me is ever gonna be sorted pretty enough for Foster.”

“Still want her though, don't ya?” There was a fair bit of accusation in the words and Gibbs turned back to the sink, eyes tipped steadfastly down. Focused on washing an already clean plate.

“Absolutely.” Cal had never lied about that, not to Gibbs. Because the man was close enough to natural to pick a flat out brazen untruth like that directly from his lips. “Everyday.”

“But here you are.”

“Here I am, yeah. Want y'too, Jethro.” He offered another truth with a shrug, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jeans so that he wasn't reaching out. Because the way Gibbs was pressed stomach against the counter, military straight, shoulders braced back, head down, made his fingers itch to touch.

“Why?” Gibbs squinted slightly as he spoke, finally letting the dishes settle, unwashed, in the bottom of the sink. “She loves you.” He turned and pressed his lower back into the edge of the counter top. His hands gripped and wiped at a dishcloth but his look stayed steady, blue eyes clear and calm. “You love her. Why want me? Why come here?.”

“My choice t'come here.” Cal shrugged, finally stepping fully into the kitchen, his boots loud on the floor. “Your choice if I stay.”

“Don't be an idiot.” Gibbs tossed the towel onto the counter and settled his hands on his hips. “Never kicked you out before, have I?”

“Not yet.” Cal shrugged again, shoulders slumping lower as he stilled a foot shy of the other man's taller form. The conversation wasn't fun anymore, wasn't distracting in the right way. For a split second he wished he was in his dark, silent office watching old footage instead of standing in the other man's kitchen surrounded by the comforting smells of food and sawdust. The pressure was back in his chest and he could smell the stagnant water that had leached into his hair, his skin. Taste it in his mouth. His head throbbed.

“Gonna someday, though.”

“Probably.” Cal winced into the truth, teeth chewing against the inside of his cheek as he dropped his eyes. “But not tonight.” Gibbs's palm was warm against his jaw, long fingers leading up to rub under his eye. “You're too pathetic to send home.”

“Pathetic, eh?” Cal mugged a wide smile, eyebrows lifting high. “Such a charmer, Jethro.” He turned his jaw into Gibbs' sure hand. “Hard t'believe anyone'd let you go.”

* * *

 

Gibbs felt the exact moment Cal's anxiety overtook his lust. He rubbed against the sudden stillness, letting his hands stroke warmth along the smaller man's arms. “I got you.” Cal nodded and automatically faked a smile, his face offering up a mockery of normalcy that was nearly perfect. In response Gibbs huffed a breath and shook his head once. “Don't.” His voice was harsh, but his touch was soft, fingers sliding over inked skin and down to rest at the other man's wrist. The pulse that beat under his fingertips was triple fast. “Don't do that, Cal.”

“M'fine.” The smaller man spoke through a clenched jaw. His eyes were murky when he looked up, the normally distinctively layered blue gray green on brown muddled towards drab. “Jus' don't leave, yeah?” Cal looked up at Gibbs through his eyelashes, head turned hard to one side.

“Not goin' anywhere.” Gibbs kept his fingers lightly hooked at Cal's wrist, eyes wide and steadily calm. “You don't gotta pretend for me.” The constant sound of running water thrummed behind them, the shower running steam into the small room. They were both stripped to the waist, feet bare on the cool tile of the floor.

“Pretend for everyone, I do.” The muscles of his throat worked busily as he swallowed hard, the shelf of his jaw jutted and tight. “Jus' habit now, Jethro.” His body shuddered in warring directions, his feet stuttering steps to move away even as his upper body leaned more fully into Gibbs' hold.

“Not doin' a very good job of it right now, Lightman.” Gibbs hauled him still with superior strength, easily drawing the smaller body tight into his own and curling around the tensed form.

“Well, long day an' all.” Cal sighed. There were reddened marks that would fade towards bruises by morning on his sternum. Gibbs ghosted long fingers over the marks, eying the positioning of them.

“CPR?” His voice was voided blank but steady, only a bare whisper away from dead calm. A bare whisper from easy violence.

“Of a sort. Bastard got overzealous a few times.” Cal itched at the impending bruising, angling himself so that he could watch the water falling into the bottom of the shower stall. “Thumped me in the ribs, breathed me back conscious.” Felt like he could use a bit of that now, actually. His lungs felt breathless. It was just a shower. Pinching his eyes shut he tried to remember the feel of the tile under his fingers. He'd been here before, safe, wet, and wanton with Gibbs at his back and the slick shower wall under the turn of his jaw. He'd been here before. It was Gibbs. It was Gibbs's house. It wasn't a basement, wasn't a tied down bench with a psychopath leaning over him. Cal could smell the familiar scent of the other man's soap over the memory of dankness that was wrapped firmly around his heaving chest.

“Breathe slower, Cal.” Gibbs murmured into Cal's ear. He emphasized his calmer breathing, his palms pressing a matched rhythm carefully against bruising skin. “C'mon, I got you.”

“Know ya do.” Cal tightened his fists hard enough to hurt, pain throbbing through his knuckles and deep into his wrists. “Y'know, durin' everything? Was like I was flyin'.” He crossed both arms up, locking Gibbs's hands into his chest. “Knew I was right, eh? Pushin' on for the better good. Knew I could trip the little fuckwit up.” Cal curled his fingers into the other man's forearms.

“And you got cocky.” Gibbs breathed into the back of Cal's head. His voice dipped quiet but pointed. He stretched his fingers into the thinner chest, letting his nails scrape against cooled skin.

“Yeah.” Cal swallowed hard and forced a laugh. “Get off on it, I do.” He still couldn't match the other man's calm breathing but his chest had loosened a bit, the tension shifting lower, baser, heat flashing at his hips.

“Bein' cocky or the adrenaline?” Gibbs's voice deepened, roughened somehow, while still remaining calming and comforting. It was a half breath from full on lustful teasing, a thought out distraction as he held Cal's body tighter and led him a step closer to the shower.

“Either. Both.” A grunted huff of amused breath thrummed off the Englishman's chest. His nervous fingers clutched harder onto Gibbs. “Was pissed off Gill didn't see it.”

“You were pissed off that she didn't just agree that you were right. That she didn't trust you.” Another step. Cal could feel the mist off the still falling water, the chill of it. He tasted copper on his tongue, fought the urge to gag, to cough.

“That too.” He managed, throat working convulsively as he screwed his eyes shut tight, childishly willing the water away into the darkness behind his closed lids.

“Pissed she turned you down, left you to deal with this on your own.” There was something tricksy in the other man's voice, something he couldn't focus on and figure out over the sound of water that was steadily pressing up his anxiety, edging him towards a frustrated and exhausted fit. Something that he'd normally have recognized and countered easily.

“Not 'xactly on my own, Jethro.” Deflection. He felt the way his lips tensed in anger, felt his jaw clench. Felt Gibbs feel it too, knew the other man's head was angled behind him, watching him, sussing him out. “Don't need Gill to mother me.” Didn't want to need Gill. Didn't want to acknowledge exactly how hurt he'd been when she'd cross armed him right outta her office, put the desk between them like a bloody barricade. How pissed he'd been, how hard it had been to blank his face and retreat.

“Bullshit.” Gibbs stepped them another bit closer to the shower as he spoke, his voice flared  
out in sarcastic irritation. “You practically beg for it, Callum.” He nudged them closer, not stopping until Cal's foot hit the lip of the shower stall. “You coulda died and she shut you down. Sent y'home without so much as a kiss on your boo boo.”

“She didn't know--”

“Gotta call bullshit again.” Gibbs led the growl directly against Cal's ear, his tongue flicking heated warmth against the lobe before his teeth nipped and gnawed. “If I knew, she sure as shit knew. Gillian Foster makes it a point to know everything about you.” He was all hands and mouth, a full assault distraction as he eased the smaller man over the edge of the stall and into the water, jeans and all. Cal's breath stopped in his chest, a dead on stall that had him wide eyed and panicked, every muscle in his body flooded with adrenaline and clenched tight. “You scare the hell out of her, y'know.” Still in complete control, Gibbs turned their bodies so that the brunt of the water thudded into his back as he centered Cal safely against his chest. “Then ya show up on her doorstep--”

“Her office.” The words gasped from his locked chest.

“--her office,” Gibbs corrected. “Probably smirkin' like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar and ask her out to dinner like nothin' happened.” He rubbed his hands full down Cal's sides, anchoring long fingers at the divots in the smaller man's hips. “After almost dyin' like an idiot and her findin' about about the professor ex lover.” There was a frustrated tone to his voice, a laugh somewhere on his breath as Gibbs held against all the flex and motion that shuddered Cal's muscles. “You're a scary guy, Cal.” He could feel the thunder of the other man's heart, was timing it against his own. “Messy.” The murmur faded to a hum.

“Stuck in the push/pull bit with 'er.” Cal swallowed panic and forced himself to speak. The crash fall sound of excellent water pressure, now that he was surrounded in it, actually eased against the tension in his chest. The unregulated force of it so very different from the slow glug trickled pace that lived in his head and kept tripping him up. “Opposite ends of the seesaw.”

“Tragic.” Without warning Gibbs turned them both, angling Cal full into the spray. He held the younger man still for a half second, just long enough to draw a strangled curse off pretty lips. Then he turned Cal again, until they were face to face, the spray centered on the back of Cal's head. “Makes me wanna knock your heads together. His eyes were bright underneath the water darkened slick of his wet hair. “Just tell her already, Lightman. Get off your ass and jump into that domestic bliss with both goddamn feet.” Even as he spoke he was working skilled fingers into soaked denim, easily working against both belt and buttons.

“She doesn't wanna--” There was a lagged hesitation to Cal's answer, a definite lack of focused attention. He was on the edge of so many conflicting emotions. Fear bashing up against lust and flooding his body with even more adrenaline while hurt and fatigue dulled the edges of things into an almost drugged haze. Gibbs stilled his denial with a kiss, one that started off hard and aggressive and ended with teeth and a matched hiss of something close to pain.

“Bullshit.” Gibbs licked at the top of Cal's lip and let his tongue trace the bowed line. “She's just waitin' for you to open your damn mouth.”

“Opened my mouth lotsa times, Jethro.” The water at his back was warm and soothing to tightened muscles. Cal felt his diaphragm relaxing, his breath easing. “Tell her all the time.”

“Nah.” The move that Gibbs made was familiar and easy, both broad palms skimming down and under wet jeans. Cal was barely hard but he stirred under long fingers, breath catching in a completely different way than it had moments ago. “You just moon and fawn and lust. You don't say the words because that'd be too easy.” Gibbs blinked slowly, eyes fixed forth-rightfully on Cal's. “You want her to see it on your face, suss it out, read the great Lightman.” And it wasn't easy. Somewhere between the step into the shower and now Cal had schooled his features, except for the bruised hollows of fatigue under his eyes he'd packed away all but lust. And that brightened at his eyes, flushed at his cheeks, made him look younger in the steam misted light. “You want her to complete some kind of best the teacher, prove herself, mythical goddamn quest.”

“Done talkin' 'bout Gill now, Jethro.” Cal bit at his lip, teeth white and strong against chapped skin. The water thundered around them, louder now that they were fully shut into the small space, shower doors closed behind them.

“You'll never be done talking about Gillian Foster, Cal.” When the smaller man started to reply Gibbs pressed him full into the tiled wall hard enough to still his words. “You're both idiots.” Any other time Gibbs would have settled the flat of one palm over Cal's mouth, tightened the fingers of the other at his throat. He'd have stolen his breath and touched him until he was too tangled up in lust to speak. And he saw the recognition of the fact flit over Lightman's face, the quick panicked blink of his eyes and worried clench of his jaw. “And I'm another.” Ignoring the thudded pain in his knee he knelt on the tiled floor and took the other man's growing erection into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I was really annoyed that Gill blew Cal off after he almost died. So I made him run to Gibbs.  
> I have beginnings of another chapter that might get added if I can finish it. 
> 
> Title is from a poem by Stevie Smith.


End file.
